Masky, the Kitten, and Unusual Violence
by JulyIdes
Summary: Masky and Hoodie are taking a walk. There's a stray cat and her kittens living under Slender's porch, so the pastas have claimed them. Masky wants to see the kittens, and ends up doing something incredibly unexpected. Hoodie has to come to terms with how badly his love has been hurt by the events that happened months prior, and tries to fix the little bit that he can. Masky/Hoodie.


**A/N: This is just a little one-shot I came up with when I was bored. It _is_ related to my other story, _Even When It's Not,_ but you don't need to read that at all to understand this one, because I've skirted around what actually happened to Masky there, too. Anyway, I'd love to know what you guys think, and thanks for reading!**

I'll set the scene for you, first. It's a bright day-fresh springtime. You know the kind. Bright and green on bottom, pale and chilly on top. The birds are singing and when the breeze dies down it's almost warm and you know winter's packing up its bags of snow and north winds. It's that kind of day. We're-that's Masky and me-walking outside, enjoying it all. Masky loves listening to the birds. It used to be he could tell you which bird made which call. He was so proud of that.

You'd like Masky. Everybody does, even Jeff. He's a sweetheart. I mean, all this shit happened and he's still as gentle as ever. Or-kind of. I thought so, until today. Like, he's still sweet and everything but-well, I'm starting to see that shit messed him up more than I thought originally. I mean, obviously it messed him up-who wouldn't it mess up?-but it's worse than I thought. And I thought it was pretty bad. You know what? I'll just tell you what happened and you can see what I mean.

So me and Mask are walking around the mansion, and we're going by the porch. We have this cat-see, nobody knows where she came from, she just showed up and started living under the porch. She used to be real scrawny, but now everybody feeds her scraps and stuff, so she's gotten fat. And she was pregnant a couple weeks ago, so she was even fatter. She had five little kittens, but one of them died so now there's only four. Don't quote me on this, but I think their names are Flamethrower, Hacksaw, No-color, and Bob. Slender's got a no-pet (at least ones that aren't fatal) rule, but he kind of overlooked this, since they're not really a drain on resources. BEN claimed Flamethrower, Jeff got Hacksaw, Eyeless got No-color, and Toby got Bob. Go figure.

Anyway, so when me and Masky go by the porch Masky stops and tugs on my sleeve, so I'll call the cats for him. And who am I to deny him anything? I sit beside him and sing, "Here, kitty-kitty-kitty," until the momma worms out from under the porch and starts sniffing our wrists. Masky scratches her behind the ears and she starts purring, winding around him. Apparently unsatisfied with only her, Masky drops onto his belly and reaches under the porch. He pulls the kittens out with infinite tenderness and cradles them against his stomach.

Masky looks back up at me and taps one of the kittens on the head, tilting his own head to the side. After looking hard at the cat-it's one of the orange tabbies-I say, "That's Flamethrower, I think. I'm not sure." He skips over the other orange kitten, No-color, and touches the patched orange and white one. "Bob." Masky touches the last kitten, the oddball black one. "Hacksaw," I tell him. Masky nods and shifts the mewling, fuzzy pile into my lap.

"I don't want them," I protest, although I do rub Bob's tiny ears. Masky plucks one kitten, No-color, from the pile and returns it to his lap. Once it is there, he wraps his scrawny, delicate fingers around its scrawny, delicate throat, and clenches them. It takes a minute for the act to even register, because it seems so impossible. Masky, hurt something? Something as innocent and weak as a kitten, of all things? Hell no. But there it is. "Mask? What? Hey, stop-let it go, you're hurting it." I reach forward to pry his fingers away from the writhing kitten's body, but he bares his teeth, pushes my hand away with his free one, and continues to strangle the animal. "You're killing it, Masky," I say, knocking the other kittens off of my lap and grabbing for his hand with both of mine.

Masky flips onto his back, raises his feet to kick, and clamps No-color to his chest. Its tiny paws, which have been clawing ineffectively against Masky's knuckles, begin to slow their fluttering. Its mouth, small and pink, opens and shuts desperately and soundlessly. I attempt to go around Masky's feet and to his side, but he twists his own body around to compensate. Placing my stomach against his shoes, fully believing them harmless, I stretch for the kitten. I am entirely shocked when Masky rears back his right foot and kicks me in the chest.

I stumble back, and I'm sure my eyes are wide-Masky's are, too. His mouth moves, desperately and soundlessly, a mirror image of the kitten's. "Masky, _let it go_," I snap, lunging over his feet until I'm pressing him into the ground, grappling for the kitten.

Masky writhes under me, his knuckles white with the force of his grip on the kitten. I doubt it will live, even if I can get it away from him, but I know I can't let him kill it. Let it die in his hands. Masky doesn't do that-that's not Masky, that's something else. Somebody else. Or maybe they're the same person now, after what happened. Either way, those hands around the kitten's throat aren't holding it when it dies.

I manage to pin Masky's left wrist to the dirt and fumble with the fingers of his right hand until they loosen and I can work the kitten away from him. Masky's voice doesn't do the wailing, but his eyes do it for him-loud and clear, furious and desperate. I roll off of him and sit, keeping the kitten against my chest and my back towards Masky. Looking down, I see that the kitten's eyes-a young, gray-blue color-are half-lidded and its head lolls back. Its tongue pokes from its jaws. I'm not sure if its breathing or not, but I stuff it back under the porch. Its mother can do more for it than I can-and I have Masky to take care of.

When I turn back around, Masky is looking at the other three kittens. I scoop them up and shove them under the porch with their strangled sibling. Momma cat follows them under. Then I glare at Masky. Slowly, warily, his eyes flick up to mine. Masky's eyes-they're gorgeous, gorgeous eyes, and they should never look so calloused, so angry. The sight of those eyes, the ones that are supposed to be quiet and liquid, like a deer's, flashing and hard, is a knife to the heart. I know why his eyes are like that-I know what I failed to do. What all of us failed to do. And so this is the consequence.

But we'll make it better. It will never disappear, but we can make it fade. Masky can be whole again-a little patchy, but he'll be whole. If I accomplish nothing else worthwhile in my life, I'll accomplish this. Because anger never solves anger, I let my glare fade and sit beside him. "Why'd you do that, Tim?" I ask, keeping my voice steady and neutral. Masky jerks his head away and looks off towards the woods. "I'm not mad, really," I say. "I just-I don't understand. Help me understand. So I can help." I scoot forward until I sit in front of him, the toes of our sneakers touching.

"I can help you sort this out," I say, reaching to touch his knee. He lets me. "I know you're probably really confused, too. If I ask yes or no questions will you answer them?" Masky hesitates, and then nods. "Are you angry?" He nods. "Were you angry at the kitten?" A pause, and then he shakes his head. "Not mad at anything the kitten did?" A negative. "At anything the momma did?" No. "At someone in the Mansion?" A longer pause, in which Masky's eyes sneak towards the Mansion. Finally, he shakes his head. "Is that the truth?" A nod. "Alright. Did you want to kill the kitten?" Yes. "Did you want to _hurt _the kitten?" Masky vehemently shakes his head no.

That action relieves me some. If my baby had had sadistic intentions, my heart would have broken further. But that he was against pain gave me some hope. He wasn't that far gone. "Was it...out of mercy?" Masky nods, looking at me hopefully. "Was the kitten suffering?" Masky nods again, his eyes lighting up. "Was it sick?" No. "Injured?" No. "How was it suffering?" Masky furrows his brow. Damn, but I wish he could speak. "Sign for me," I say. It's not something either of us is good at-sign language. We're actually pretty terrible at it, but we started learning a couple weeks ago so we could talk better. It's good for Masky, too. Something to focus his mind.

Masky pauses, biting his bottom lip. I lean forward and steal a quick kiss. He raises his eyebrows and half-smiles. I think about kissing him again, since I got a good reaction, but I want to deal with this first. Masky points towards the porch and then signs, _Good. _"The kitten's good?" I ask. Masky nods, then signs, _life. _"The kitten has a good life?" Masky shakes his head. _Bad life, _he says. "How does it have a bad life?" _Life bad. _This time it's me whose brow is furrowing. "Okay. The kitten is good." Masky bobs his head in encouragement. "But the kitten is suffering because its life is bad, because...life is just bad?" Masky nods earnestly. My heart feels like it's been scorched, trampled, and stabbed.

I shake my head and rub my eyes, swallowing around the lump in my throat. But now is not the time for weakness. I take a deep breath and move to sit behind Masky, wrapping one arm around his throat and pulling him back against my chest. He complacently rolls his eyes up to look at me, his body relaxing. "What are you saying?" I ask, pressing my mouth into his hair, tasting warmth and shampoo. "You want to die?"

Masky shrugs. I close my eyes and release a shaky breath. "Not even for me you wouldn't want to live?" His body sinks further against mine and he turns his face to press a light kiss against my jaw. He brings his hands up out of his jacket pockets to sign, _I love you. _It's the first phrase we learned-the most important. I sign it back, brushing my hands against his. "So you will? Live for me?" Masky nods. It's not good enough. "But you won't want to." It's not a question, it's a dull, weary statement. How very dark the world is-how unfair, how cruel. It's a sadistic monster, plucking wings off of sparrows to watch them squirm until they rot and die. Masky is rotting.

I pull him into my lap, press my mouth against his neck and murmur a mantra of love and apology. He squirms. To get away or turn around and return affection, I don't know and I don't care. I keep him against my body, warm and solid and safe, until he starts whimpering. The sound cramps my heart further. "I'm sorry, baby, so sorry," I murmur, squeezing him harder. "Never should have happened. Won't ever happen again, you know how Slender is, he'll keep us safe, I'll keep you safe."

Masky knocks his head back against my nose and I jerk away. He worms his way around and crushes himself against my chest, winding his arms around my neck and burying his face there. His body shivers against mine and I hold him as tightly as I can without hurting him, resting the side of my head against his. "What's wrong, huh?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Talking is supposed to help."

Masky shakes his head furiously, his hands clenching and releasing the fabric of my hoodie. "You can, Mask, I know you can. Please, baby, maybe it will help." His back hitches under my arms and he tilts his face up, eyes narrow and terrified and he's crying and I say, attempting to smile, "That's supposed to help too."

He grimaces and tries to climb out of my lap, but I flip us over so he's lying under me. He bares his teeth and turns his face to the side, his stomach jumping erratically with his breathing. I roll to his side, so he doesn't suffocate, and reach over to guide his eyes to mine. He struggles at first, grabbing my wrist, and then the fight leaves him as quickly as ever and his face twists as he sobs. Silent, racking sobs, with a pathetic, wet face and bony fingers that cling to my clothes like birds to shelter in a storm.

I tug him closer, scattering kisses on his cheeks and stroking his hair. "That's it," I say. "That's good. That's good, Masky. You're good. You're so brave, baby, so strong. Just hold on for me. It'll get better. Just time, that's all. It'll stop hurting so much. You'll start feeling good things again, promise. Ask-ask Eyeless, or Toby. They'll tell you it takes time to get over stuff like this, but someday you'll look back and you'll know it hurt but you'll know how amazing you are for getting through it. God, you're so amazing, Timothy. You know that, right? You are. Everybody knows it. Hey, I'm serious. _Look _at me."

I tap his temple, near his eyes, until they lock with mine. I nuzzle our noses together and his breath jerks again, his eyelashes fluttering damp and dark against his skin. "You're amazing."

He shakes his head, so I straddle him and glare. "You are," I insist, grabbing his hand and kissing the fingertips. "No matter what anybody said."

Masky turns his head to the side and I know we've danced a little too close to actually mentioning what happened for his comfort. It's far too soon-maybe it will always be too soon. "I mean it," I say, lowering my face towards his. "Understand?"

Masky looks up, sighs, and nods. I smile and kiss the tip of his nose. He eagerly catches my mouth with his and I readjust my position so my weight rests over his body, although I support some of it on my elbows, which rest beside his head. And I kiss him. Quite thoroughly.

Later, after dinner, I pry myself away from Masky's side, leaving him under Eyeless's watchful...sockets. I slip out to the porch and fish around for the kittens. I pull out Bob, Flamethrower, the oddball Hacksaw, and then, finally, No-color. The little tabby, near twin to Flamethrower, is limp and still, eyes shut. I set it on the ground and watch it, holding my breath and hoping for any kind of movement. There is none. Sighing, I rock back on my heels and scratch between Mama cat's ears. "Sorry, kitty," I say.

I take No-color's body and throw it out into the forest, where I don't doubt that something will have eaten it by morning. Maybe I could have dug it a grave-but what's the point? There are animals in that forest that'll eat what they want, no matter how much dirt is over it, and I have Masky to get back to.

So anyway, that's what happened with Masky and the kitten. I just want to make one thing clear, though: the kitten is not symbolic of Masky. No way. The kitten died, and that's not what's happening with Masky. He's going to live. I'll make sure of it. Oh, and I have Slender and a household of vicious serial killers on my side. We'll make sure he turns out alright.


End file.
